


before those hands pulled me from the earth

by switchingfoot



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23993998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/switchingfoot/pseuds/switchingfoot
Summary: An unexpected way in which Blake makes Schofield think of home.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	before those hands pulled me from the earth

**Author's Note:**

> Three things: 1) I haven't written anything in literal years. 2) I haven't (clearly) ever posted to this website. 3) This isn't much. But it's...something. I've been rewriting it a ridiculous amount for the last week and now feels like a good a time as any.
> 
> I have no idea where or who it was on tumblr that commented on how they wear their helmets, but I wish I did. That's really where this came from. There are no excuses for all the nonsense about curls, I must admit. But there you go. 
> 
> Also, the title is just supposed to be in reference to the fact that this is, literally & obviously, prior to the whole...being buried alive bit.

There is an ache in his hands.

It’s not a physical pain, this ache. It’s a longing, more like. The kind that wants to desperately grab hold of a memory, as though it is a physical thing.

But it’s not. Even if it were, he couldn’t be sure that it would be willing to be held. He hasn’t seen himself reflected back for his own viewing good and proper in months and he isn’t sure he wants to. Isn’t sure _they_ would want to. (Of course, they _would_ , for at least a full first look. Once the staring commences, though, he can’t say with any certainty if it will be in love or in horror, happiness or despair; something better, or something worse.)

As it is, for now, he lets his eyes drift closed and his fingers twitch across the memory of a full head of dark curls soft beneath their tips before it tries to pull away again. 

It’s not as though this is an entirely new sensation in him — hadn’t he seen hundreds of heads just the same, or nearly, passing through the depots, and the training grounds, and the trenches, and the trenches, and the trenches, and, as often, strewn to bits in fields, afterwards? Yes, he supposes he must have. The difference was merely that they weren’t quite so full of youth in the way that Blake is. Or, at least, he didn’t know it — their youth — as much as he had somehow gotten to know Blake’s. That must be why — why he’s aching for home in a way that, for once, feels like it might actually have a name. Softly spoken, maybe. But a name, nonetheless.

He could almost imagine Blake standing next to the girls he’s missing, heads all full of night sky curls—could see them in a row as though they were siblings, could see them running through gardens, and along riverbanks, and through streets, and in dirt and mud and trenches—but no. God, no. Much as his hands ache, he can’t even begin to allow himself to wish they were here. Or even wish that he were there, when he must be here (always a little while longer; Christmas will come again, and again, and again, and he won’t make that mistake again in the meantime). Thank God they were not here and could not be here and would never understand what it was to be here. Thank God their concept of war was nothing at all like his and even, small mercies, that they really had no idea that this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Life wasn’t supposed to be like this, but they hadn’t been in it long enough to know there was a difference. 

He can’t really be all that sorry that the ache has no relief in sight, then.

Still, when Tom Blake removes his helmet to run his fingers through the short, thick, dark curls upon his head, Will Schofield can’t help but want to, too.

He cannot be so wholly jealous of Blake’s hands. 

He takes a moment, and finds that his own hands are as satisfied as they are going to be. One returns to his left breast pocket for the best comfort he possesses and the other to the body of his rifle for comfort by another name. Blake is watching him when he opens his eyes. Surprisingly, he says nothing when blue settles on blue.

There is a minor panic in Will’s chest at the thought of what Blake may have seen cross his face. More, it’s an uncertainty in what could hold Blake back from whatever comment sits on his tongue, because he isn’t the kind of person to have a particularly strong relationship with Will’s old friend, silence. He probably never has been in all his life.

But France is a different world and Blake is still learning.

“You really shouldn’t wear your helmet that far back,” Will offers in deflection. He should have left the silence alone, according to habit. Damn whatever Blake might have been thinking.

Instead, “Oh, so dashing good looks ought to go on the list of things you don’t care for,” Blake returns, with a tap of his forefinger to his overly exposed temple. “Anything else we should mark while I’ve got the book out?”

Will’s head gives the smallest shake, eyes rolling in a flash and coming back to give Blake a sharp glare. The “list” is nothing short of ridiculous - did anyone enjoy lying in the mud (much as they had to do it)? And so what if he isn’t particularly fond of Albertson’s periodic “meals” (if one could really call them that)? Talking of home - maybe. Maybe he had him there. 

For his part, Blake bites his lower lip to keep the shit eating grin from breaking out, a quick quirk of the brow begging for a counter. He can be a cocky bastard, this kid, when he feels like it.

And somehow, he holds out. Will breaks first.

“It’s dangerous. You’re exposing more than you ought.” He should leave it at that, but can’t help adding, “Snipers already have it easy enough spotting that forehead of yours. No reason to make it any easier.”

“Ah,” Blake gives a little scoff in response, “I plan to see what’s coming when it comes. And I won’t be afraid of it when it does.” Will isn’t particularly surprised to find that the ache has spread into his chest, completely replacing the thought of panic now. How many men have sat beside him thinking exactly the same thing? Where are they now? What did it matter?

“No,” he says, softly. “You only intend to not be afraid.” Fear doesn’t care much for intentions, he might add, but he doesn’t need to. Not really.

“I don’t mind dying for King and country. So long as mum’s got Joe, she’ll be alright. Long as he’s there, I won’t mind it at all,” Blake sounds confident, but they both know there’s the all too real prospect of Joe not being around, either. And what then?

Silence weighs heavy for a moment (perhaps the weight of him is what has always turned Blake off), before Blake shifts his position, just enough that his helmet tilts and a wayward curl finds its way out. “Well, have it your way, Sco. I don’t _intend_ to be afraid when it comes.”

Will gives an all but imperceptible nod, as they slip into the thunderously loud noise of their own thoughts, even while silence takes his hold once more. 

Tom Blake is daydreaming of a home with a mum and a Joe and a good meal on the table, just precisely so. He never will wear his helmet any differently, and, when Will Schofield remembers these moments (memories that will struggle and beg and beg to be held, not at all like the memories he’s desperately grasping at just now), he supposes it didn’t really matter, in the end.

But he doesn’t know that yet.

Instead, he is taken in by a small, loose curl.


End file.
